Wait Until the Lone Sun Breaks
by AliceInSomewhereland
Summary: "My friends all think they will come out of this unscathed. They think one day they'll unmask, face an adoring crowd of fans, be rewarded with money and women and notoriety for what they've done for this city. But we know differently, you and I. There's no way to be who we are and come out of this alive." e/e superhero au.
1. Chapter 1

Welcome, my lovelies, to my newest fic!

It was prompted by my dear beta, Inge (ThinksInWords here, textsfromumbridge on tumblr), for her birthday *coughamonthagocough*...

Anyway, she asked for a "superheroes au." Then this happened. It's going to be my newest chapter fic! It's going to be very dark, and much less romantic than _Tides_. But hopefully it will be a good follow-up chapter fic to that one (once again, thanks for all of the love for that one, and if we're lucky, this one won't disappoint!)

I've never written anything quite like this before, so constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. But hopefully I've done it justice - I'm very excited about this one!

Thanks to Inge (and everyone else) for being patient, Kat (frustratedstudent) for letting me bounce ideas off of her towards the beginning and helping me come up with an organized plot, and Christine (seredhiel05 on tumblr) for beta-ing this first chapter and being awesome!

**Pairings (eventually): **e/é, jetaire, feuilly/azelma, a crapton of brotps, idek what else...

**Warnings:** Some descriptions of violence/violent scenes (could get more graphic), language, possibly some blood and gore, maaaaaybe some _sensuality_ *wiggles eyebrows*

**Disclaimer**: This crackiest of crack!fics is probably not what Hugo had in mind, but he'll just have to deal with it! Still, I can only take credit for this crazy use of his brilliant characters. Also, the title comes from the Ben Howard song "Depth Over Distance," and the title of this chapter is from his song "To Be Alone."

* * *

**Wait Until the Lone Sun Breaks**

_by AliceInSomewhereland_

**Chapter 1**

and in the darkness a shallow poison, it has grown

* * *

He's called The Revolutionary. Nothing more, nothing less. No one knows who he truly is; he targets the wealthy, the corrupt, the dregs of society who have dragged this city down, down, down. He champions the people, the poor, the used and the miserable and the wretched. The rich hate him, the poor love him, but all fear him.

The WANTED posters that wallpaper the flat surfaces of the city proclaim him the leader of a group of vigilantes. Accompanying his photograph – a grainy image of a slender young man with a red mask and a shock of curly, golden hair – are the photos of his coconspirators: The Chief, The Guide, The Cynic, The Poet, The Medic... Photo after photo after photo. The nine young men, the two young women. _Les Amis_.

The police and the government know them as terrorists; to the citizens, they are superheroes.

Sometimes, however, even he is unsure to which group he belongs.

* * *

"The robberies are believed to be the most recent work of the woman known only as The Wolf, seen here on the security footage from the museum."

The grainy image of a lithe woman in a dark bodysuit, her long hair wild and her face masked, darts across the screen, dodging a turnstile with stunning acrobatics.

"Chief Inspector Javert maintains, at this time of the investigation, that The Wolf is working alone, and is not connected to the terrorist group known as Les Amis."

The woman smiles triumphantly at the news anchor on the television, delicately investigating the jewels with hands gloved in black cotton.

_No fingerprints. No trace._

She cannot be caught.

* * *

_13 juin_

_Monsieur le Maire,_

_I understand your concern for the terrorist group known as Les Amis. My team is working diligently, around the clock, to identify them and to discover their whereabouts. They _will_ see justice before the year is done._

_As to your concerns stated during our most recent meeting, Monsieur, I again assure you that my pursuit of the criminal Jean Valjean is most certainly not a vendetta; our intelligence is pointing towards his being a supplier to Les Amis. His crimes, as we both know, are numerous; this is only the most recent on a long list of offenses, though he remains as impossible to track down and indict as always. _

_But it is only a matter of time until he slips up, or Les Amis slip up, and then we shall have them both. They will not remain at large in your city for long, Monsieur. This, I promise you._

_Cordialement,_

_Inspector Javert_

* * *

She often fancies herself the female, much more badass Robin Hood. Stealing from the rich, giving to the poor, trying to subvert the stinking mess of society as a whole – well, perhaps she doesn't actually give to the poor. But the rest is true. Mostly.

There's just too much to pay for, too many people to pay _off_, and there are people she needs to protect. Her sister, her brother; neither one any more righteous than her, but not for lack of trying.

Her life started with the petty thievery her parents taught her. In turn, she taught both her younger siblings the subtleties and the art of the task. It was her hope that they wouldn't get caught, and that someday, all three could escape this miserable life their parents had cursed them with.

But it was not to be so. By the time she was a teenager, she was learning how to tap into security systems, how to bypass sensors and break into vaults. She began learning how to fight, how to sneak up on an enemy or a target and disable them before they were even aware of her presence.

She killed her first man when she was sixteen.

It was accidental, of course, but it changed her. She became bitter, and more and more insistent on getting her younger siblings out of this life.

Previously known as the Daughter of the Wolf – the wolf being her father, Thénardier, a big time organized crime lord in the city – she stole away the children in the middle of the night, changed their names, became known solely as the Wolf, and took up her craft within museums and bank vaults.

Eventually, she stopped stealing from the museums and the bank vaults (unless she was paid a healthy sum to fetch something) in favor of the elaborate safes and strongboxes the wealthy hid their most prized possessions in. Apparently, they didn't trust the banks to protect their valuables, and it was more than easy to break into even the most secure safes.

And it was fun.

A few nights ago had seen her breaking into a museum for an employer, but tonight she could be found out on the Strip, the part of the city where the wealthy reside.

It wasn't hard to steal the jewelry and money in the safe. She had broken into this exact model at least four times previously, and each time it got simpler.

She didn't feel bad; she felt quite the opposite, in fact. She would fence the items and pay her debts, and use the little that was left over to buy herself and her siblings something nice. Her victims would either locate their loot in the pawnshops, if it hadn't been melted down, or they would receive hefty sums from their insurance companies to replace the items. So really, no one got hurt.

Lost in her thoughts, she bumped into a man wearing a hoodie. When she looked down at her hand a few moments later, she was rather shocked to find his wallet clutched in her fingers. She had been doing this for so long that pick pocketing was almost reflexive. The realization did not please her.

Still, she had his wallet, and now had to make her escape before he realized it. So she ducked around the corner, disappearing into the dark night.

* * *

The voice hissed, "You coming?"

The man had stopped behind his friend, who in turn was stopped in front of a graffiti-covered grate that let into the sewers and the system of tunnels that ran deep into the bowels of the city. The public often hypothesized what nasty things might be down there – long lost treasures, secret government labs or panic shelters, bodies, giant, man-eating animals, the lists went on and on. But all he had ever encountered was his own group, Les Amis, though they were more than happy to help perpetuate the rumors. It kept the adventurers away.

"Yeah, I'm just looking for my–." He trailed off as he realized what must've happened.

_That girl_. She had bumped into him on the Strip, and must've taken his wallet. He was too busy trying to get through the streets unseen to notice. And petty thieves are hardly expected in that part of town, anyway. It's too swanky.

"Wallet," he finished lamely, sighing. He really hadn't wanted to fight tonight.

Resigned, he turned away from the tunnel, pushing the grate closed behind his friend.

* * *

She was almost home when she realized she was being followed, so she turned a corner, speeding up, ready to either bolt away and run through the confusing streets to lose her tail or to turn and fight.

A soft, tenor voice hit her from behind. "I believe you have something of mine," he said, grabbing her and pushing her against a brick wall – hard, but not hard enough to hurt her.

She shrugged, staring up at him through her lashes with wide eyes, doing her best to look a combination of seductive, innocent, and frightened. "Monsieur, I'm just trying to get home, I want no trouble–."

He cut her off by roughly seizing her hands and holding them above her head, against the wall, as he searched her pockets. She did not fight, only smirked lazily, and when he pulled out the wallet, she laughed. "So this is how you like it, pretty boy?" she asked in a singsong voice. He snapped his gaze to meet her own, glaring at her in a way that was supposed to intimidate her.

Then she kicked him away, but he did not fall to the ground, and she was surprised to find him both dodging her next hit and shoving her away with one of his own. She was even more surprised that he was not landing any deliberate hits on her person, just driving her back.

He was good, and it was surprising. If she had _known_, she never would have pick pocketed him, intentionally or otherwise.

She lunged, throwing a punch at his face. He ducked, but she used her momentum to spin in some impressive acrobatics, and ended up kicking him, knocking him off his feet.

He rolled before she could hit him again, and leapt to his feet.

His hood fell off in the process, and she found herself face to face with a porcelain-skinned, blonde-haired man. She faltered, and he used the spare instant to land a hit of his own, between her shoulder blades, knocking her off balance. She hit the ground and rolled, but when she was up an instant later, he was gone.

There was something familiar about him, she reflected, staring around her, preparing for his second wind.

But none came, and she slowly let both her breathing and her guard down, though the latter only decreased slightly, as she stared after him. Exactly whose wallet had she stolen?

Then she noticed the posters on the wall. Les Amis, led by the blonde-haired, masked Revolutionary.

Had she just fought with the government's biggest dissenter?

* * *

She had gotten a good look at him. _Damn_. He knew he should've suited up. But to do so over a _wallet_? It had seemed ridiculous.

Who knew that he would end up fighting with a woman who was obviously so much more than a petty thief? She fought as though her life depended on it, and she fought like it was the most fun she had ever had. She was dangerous.

Whatever, he had her fingerprints all over his wallet. She wouldn't remain a stranger to him for long.

* * *

_"Men and women of this great city," Javert said, standing at the podium with his shoulders back and his chin high and his brow already damp with sweat, "Each day we get closer to finding the hideout of the terrorist group known as Les Amis. Each day, we are discovering more and more about their whereabouts, their plans, and their identities. You will not have to live in fear of their actions for much longer. We are doing everything we can to apprehend these criminals, and to ensure that they will be brought to justice, swiftly, strongly, and definitively. They are not heroes, you see. They are radicals, dangerous to the safety of yourselves and your families and this beautiful city we call home. They will not rescue you from your fears, the will not deliver you from your despair. They are nothing more than selfish children on a mission to stir things up. And they will _not_ succeed._

_"If Les Amis happen to be watching this," and with this, Javert turned directly to the camera in front of him, his face even more severe and stern than usual, his dark eyes shadowed by the ghosts that threatened the entire system on which he had built his modest existence. "If you're watching this," he repeated, much quieter and much more dangerously than before, "Know that we are coming. Know that we are closing in. Know that you cannot run, you cannot hide, and soon, you will not even be able to breath." He finished by glaring into the camera. _

_Later, when he watched the repeat of his short speech on the nightly news, he would be struck not by his thundering voice, nor by his fury, but by how much hate for these self-branded superheroes he had managed to convey in just a simple look. It even chilled _his_ bones a little. But these terrorists could not, _would not_ win._

* * *

"Any particular reason you're following me?" she asked, her tone bored and her stance lax. Few people chose to mess with her when she was dressed in her leather body suit, flitting from shadow to shadow in dangerous boots with knives for heels and a black mask hiding her face from identifiers. She could have lost him blocks ago, if her night hadn't been so quiet. Now, at least she might come home with a story.

He emerged from the shadows, and was so much more than the grainy photos on the wanted posters could ever convey. _The Revolutionary._ He was clothed in all black, presumably leather, though she couldn't tell in the dark, save for the red mask that hid his face and cast his eyes into darkness.

It was striking, how the sharp shadows of the silver moon played upon his features; in this light, light broken by buildings and small trees and street lamps, he looked almost skeletal. His skin was white as bone; his eyes might as well have been empty pits in the shadows, his hair looked like the cottony white residue of all that was left on a corpse's head as it decomposed. And the red mask, well, it was a strike of crimson blood across his skull. In spite of herself and the warm night, she shivered.

"You're an interesting woman, Ms. Jondrette," he replied, equally as lazy.

She narrowed her eyes at him, and looked around for an exit. Of _course_ he was blocking the only one she could make on foot. Luckily, however, she didn't _need_ to escape by a street. Dead ends were only dead ends to the mundane.

"How do you know that name?" she asked, fighting to keep her voice even. But as he opened his mouth to respond, she cut him off, inquiring, "Is it because you ran a background check on my prints from your wallet, or because you've been watching me?"

He just regarded her – or, at least, she thought that's what he was doing – from behind his mask.

"So, you know," he responded. He sounded almost _bored_. It enraged her, but she did not fight when he continued speaking. "Ms. Eponine Jondrette. Twenty-six years old, five-foot-eight, approximately 120 pounds. Suspected to be the thief known only by the name of 'The Wolf.' First arrest at age 12 for stealing from a convenience store, and multiple arrests since, both as a minor and an adult. Most recently, you were arrested on suspect of burglarizing a jewelry store, but the detectives didn't have enough evidence to hold you. Since then, you've been lying low, mostly sticking to secure, private jobs and –" he cleared his throat "– petty theft. Arrested at age sixteen for killing a man, though the evidence suggested that the murder was self-defense of yourself and your family, so the police let you go. Shall I go on?"

The Wolf, Eponine, just glared at him, clenching her hands into fists to try to keep them from shaking. She growled, low, feral, in her throat, and launched herself at him.

But the Revolutionary was expecting it, and her intense anger and fear had overtaken her usual calm demeanor in a fight. Instead of being tactful, instead of using his weight against him and beating him to a pulp with patience and the impeccable timing only years of training can bring, she fought with rage, as fierce as a wolf fighting for its life, throwing everything it had learned about instincts and survival as a pup away.

And she lost because of it. That frustrated her more than anything.

The fight did not last long, and he had her pinned to the ground and struggling incessantly below him. He said nothing, just stared her down from out of those shadowed pockets where his eyes were hiding, until she tired and eventually, resignedly, calmed.

"What do you want from me?" she asked quietly, fighting this time to keep her fear hidden.

"I want you to take me to Lamarque."

She gave him a feral grin in spite of herself. "What will you give me if I do?" she asked, forcing her voice to keep its bored, singsong edge. _Don't let him know you fear him._

He smiled back, just as dangerously.

* * *

They were walking towards the center of the city, and encountered no one. Few people were out in _this_ city at this time of night.

They walked side by side, the Revolutionary and the Wolf, each aware of exactly how far away their weapons were, and each just as unsure of what to say as the other.

Finally, Eponine asked, "What do you want from Lamarque?" The question came out in a bored tone, but in fact, Eponine's senses were on fire. Whoever the Revolutionary truly was, be it that boy she fought with a few months ago or someone completely different, she didn't trust him.

"Isn't it obvious?" he replied, looking at her – or at least, she assumed he was looking at her. The shadows still hid his eyes, so she had no real way to tell.

She just glared at him. "Right. The 'People's Politician,' they call him. Makes sense that you'd want to see him."

He chose to remain silent, and Eponine made no further attempts at conversation.

It took them a while to arrive at the row of townhomes where Lamarque was hiding, as they had stuck to the shadows to cross the city.

"Why do you know where he's being kept?" the Revolutionary whispered.

Eponine turned to look at him. He was very close to her, keeping to the shadows and out of the line of sight of a camera pointed back into the alley that stretched into endless darkness behind them. She wished she could see his eyes, but they remained blackened by shadows.

She shrugged, giving him an amused look. "Oh, I broke into some detective's house last week. Among other things, Lamarque's location was written on a notepad on his desk. So of course, I memorized it, in case a _bidder_ came along looking for our Prince."

The Revolutionary yanked her towards him then, his strong grip tight on her arm. Even through the leather, she could feel his gloved fingers biting into her. His face was inches from hers, and she imagined that his concealed eyes would be glaring into her own.

"Who else did you tell?" he hissed dangerously.

Eponine just smirked, and wrenched her arm away. "No one. You _were_ the highest bidder. And the only bidder. No one knows that I know where Lamarque is, besides you and, I'm assuming, your merry band of fools."

He opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off. "Besides," she said, "It's not like I _needed_ to see his address on that desk to find him. I would've found him eventually, no matter what."

* * *

He was impressed by her, despite his better judgment.

She didn't fear him, for one thing. Perhaps it was because she was a child of the night, as well. She was the Wolf: a thief, a criminal, a woman desperate to claw her way up from the miserable depths that were trying so hard to drown her. She wanted out, that much was obvious, but until then, she would do whatever it took to not only survive, but to remain on top, ahead of the game.

In spite of himself, he admired her for it.

A window had been left open in the back of the house, and a fire escape was an easy leap away. Its ladder was retracted, however, preventing them from climbing directly up.

He reached for a tool to pull it down, but Eponine wordlessly smacked his hand away and pushed past him, easily climbing wooden crates and standing on the dumpster several yards away. He watched from the shadows with a carefully blank expression as she took a few deep breaths, appearing to almost be meditating with closed eyes. When they opened, she ran, light on her feet, the length of the dumpster, and flipped off its end, easily catching a rung of the fire escape in an acrobatic he had only ever seen the likes of in a circus during his childhood.

Eponine swung for a second, then, all with impressive core- and upper body strength, bent herself in half, easily catching her knees around the railing, and sitting up as easily as though she had been laying back on a bed.

Then she gave him a smug look.

"Try that, pretty boy," she cooed, releasing the ladder to him with a careless kick and an infuriating smirk.

"My way would've been quicker," he countered, meeting her on the first level of the fire escape.

Eponine's smile only widened. "But my way was more fun." She sauntered away, swinging her hips, and as she climbed the stairs to the next level, she leaned down towards his masked face. "Plus, you got to watch."

The Revolutionary did not dignify her with a response, only followed her up to the level that was even with the open window. He went first, thinking he was being chivalrous. She just rolled her eyes.

It was a quick leap, and the building was brick, so he did not make too much noise. He slithered through the window, into a dark hallway with closed doors on both sides. He waited a moment to make sure no one was coming, then beckoned Eponine through. She made the leap easily and in total silence, and when he held out his hand to her, politely and without a second thought, she grasped it tightly and pulled herself gracefully through the window.

He dropped his hand, replacing its presence with a stun gun. Holding a finger to his lips – again, she rolled her eyes – he began to creep down the hall. They stuck to the shadows, melting into them together, watching for the guards both knew would be there.

When they came upon the first one, exiting a room and pulling the door softly closed behind him, Eponine took the initiative. The Revolutionary tried to grab her arm, but she slid from his grasp as easily as if she were a shadow, a plume of smoke, twisting and falling idly through his fingers. She stalked silently behind the oblivious guard, turning and flashing the Revolutionary that feral grin.

When she was only inches behind the guard, she tapped his shoulder; he turned in surprise, pointing his gun at her, but she lazily kicked it out of his grasp. He threw a punch in response, grunting, but she caught his fist, using it as leverage to twist her body, throwing herself into the air and locking her thighs tight around his neck, using her moment to bring him to the ground. He tore at her leather-clad legs, but it did no good, and she squeezed until he was unconscious.

When she stood, the Revolutionary was further up the hallway, another guard unconscious at his feet. He turned to her, eying the man at her feet, then jerked his head. She hurried after him.

The next guard, and all the others they encountered after, they took out together. Eponine would walk behind one, get his attention, and the Revolutionary would take him down. It was simple, quick work; they made a good team. It was a realization that made them both rather uncomfortable, but neither had time to reflect.

Two guards– now unconscious and slumped against one another on the floor – stationed on either side of a heavy door had given away Lamarque's location to the young man and woman.

The Revolutionary grabbed on to Eponine's arm, giving her a cautioning look (she responded with a dramatic eye roll behind her mask) before carefully opening the door.

He slipped inside first. The room was comfortably furnished and warmed by a roaring fire that cast about dancing shadows. Candles, rather than lamps, provided the light that the fire did not. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the soft orange glow before they fell on Lamarque.

The Revolutionary heard the door click shut and lock behind him, and felt, rather than saw, Eponine stop and observe at his right elbow. He ignored her, instead staring hard at this man, this people's politician, measuring him up in person for the first time.

Lamarque cut an imposing, severe figure, regarding the intruders with a serious countenance. He was tall, and wearing his Dress Blues, the medals of honor glinting in the glow of the candles on the desk before him. His hair was dark brown, and impressive sideburns framed his cheeks. His expression was unreadable; his heavily-lidded eyes betrayed neither his opinion of the intruders nor any surprise at their presence.

He stood completely still, and the Revolutionary stared back, until Lamarque reached forward, suddenly, and pressed his hand under his desk.

Eponine was there, stalking towards him like the wolf she was, closing in on her prey and pulling a weapon from her belt, but Lamarque turned his carefully blank face to her and raised his arms in surrender.

"Forgive me," he said, his voice deep and flat. "You have incapacitated my guards. It was necessary that I call for backup."

Eponine stood unflinchingly with the gun poised a mere foot from his face, glaring at him.

The Revolutionary made his move.

He pulled a small object from his belt. It was long, rectangular, and black; he pressed a button on it, which activated a small red light.

"If anyone is listening in," he told Lamarque, "this will jam the signal. Are we being watched?"

Lamarque shook his head, eyeing Eponine over the barrel of her gun. The Revolutionary reached over, slowly forcing her arm down. She turned her glare on him, then replaced the gun and stalked away.

"Forgive me," Lamarque repeated, "This is one of Louis-Philippe's safehouses, and those are his men outside. He is protecting me from his own corrupt allies, but is also using this opportunity to spy on me. My own people swept the place, and inform me that there are no cameras in here. However, they are listening in and tracking my phone and internet activities, undoubtedly waiting for me to slip up so they can make my campaign illegitimate. Had I not called for help immediately, that would have been enough – being an ally of the Revolutionary and les Amis is enough of an offense to ostracize me, and unquestionably land me in jail."

The Revolutionary nodded his head. "I understand, General. Still, it is an honor to meet you."

"You as well, Revolutionary. I wondered when you would be paying me a visit. You and les Amis have caused quite a commotion in this city," Lamarque responded.

The Revolutionary was unable to prevent the feral grin that spread across his face.

Then Lamarque eyed Eponine, who appeared to be looking for an escape route, her long, lean figure silhouetted from the lights outside and casting shadows across the room to lay over the Revolutionary's person.. "Although," he said pensively, almost smirking, "I thought you would travel in different circles than with a master thief like the Wolf. Unless she's your girlfriend?" he asked curiously.

Eponine turned, rolling her eyes yet again, and snapped, "In his _dreams_."

Lamarque chuckled.

The Revolutionary frowned and cleared his throat. "We don't have much time, General. I need to know if you can win this election."

Lamarque regarded him seriously once more, and told him, a little sadly, "Alas, no. I cannot win. Louis-Philippe is in the pocket of too many of the powerful and wealthy in this city, and so many others are in his pocket in turn. They can use blackmail and coercion and fear and propaganda to win the election. No, I'm hardly a threat."

"The people will vote for you," the Revolutionary insisted.

Lamarque gave him a harsh look. "It is the people who are the most at risk. _They_ are the ones being blackmailed. _They_ are the ones being intimidated. _They_ are the ones who are fearful. I may be the better option, but it is far safer for many of them and their families if they vote for Louis-Philippe. It is a vicious, vicious cycle, boy, and even someone who champions the absolution of their misery cannot hope to win against someone so ingrained into the minds and actions of the powerful."

Anger bubbled in the younger man. "So you're saying that nothing can be done?" he asked the old general tightly.

Lamarque raised his eyebrows. "Isn't that why _you're_ here, boy?" he asked.

When he did not answer, Lamarque approached him from around the side of his desk. "Louis-Philippe and his gang have vilified you and les Amis. They have presented you as terrorists to the public, as the enemies of the people."

Something in the hall creaked. Lamarque' looked towards the door, then grasped the Revolutionary by the shoulders, shaking him lightly.

"_Prove_ to the people that you mean them no harm, that you are their champions, that you are standing up for their rights and to protect them. Don't just go after the corrupt politicians – watch and listen and wait and save people from these corrupt men and women. If you save them, they will idolize _you_, and fear Louis-Philippe and his _thugs_ less."

Shouts sounded in the hallway. Eponine hissed at him from the window, gesturing for him to come, but Lamarque held him fast.

"I cannot publicly give you my support, boy, you or any of les Amis, or support your actions. Not right now. But if you do this right, and if you support me, I can win, and we can fix this broken city together."

The shouts were outside of the door now, and fists were banging and shouting for the general.

"I'm inside!" shouted Lamarque. Then he turned back the Revolutionary, handing him the signal jam. "Think about what I said. And never, _never_ return here."

Then he pushed the Revolutionary towards the window, which Eponine was already halfway through, and the young man slipped into the long shadows of the night just as the door was broken down.

* * *

Hope it's off to a good start!

Thanks for reading, reviewing, and favoriting!

P.S. Happy (very) belated birthday, Inge. Hope this was everything you wanted it to be (and that it will continue to be so)!


	2. Chapter 2

Hello again, and welcome to chapter 2!

Thank you so much for the enthusiastic response to this story! It really is fun to write, and it's a treat to know that y'all are having as much fun reading it as I am writing it.

Thanks to Inge, my beta, who always has overwhelming encouragement and advice and feedback to offer to help me make this the best it can be.

Finally, I think I mentioned last time that there would be much more time between updates than there was with _Tides. _This will be particularly true after this chapter here. I am relocating from the United States to France next Monday, Sept. 23, to teach English for seven months. I will have plenty of time over there to write and will certainly be continuing the story, but it might be a few weeks before my next update, as I will need time to settle in and reacquaint myself with Paris and learn my new town and get used to speaking French again. That said, I have a rather long flight, so hopefully I'll get at least a bit written. No promises though, as there is a good chance I will be a) drunk, b) reading, c) watching in flight entertainment, d) sleeping (though that's unlikely - sleeping on airplanes seems impossible for me). But it'll probably option a, that seems to be my default state. :P

So without further ado:

**Pairings (eventually): **e/é, jetaire, feuilly/azelma, a crapton of brotps, idek what else...

**Warnings:** Some descriptions of violence/violent scenes (could get more graphic), language, possibly some blood and gore, maaaaaybe some_sensuality_ *wiggles eyebrows*

**Disclaimer**: Only the situation and interpretation of the characters are mine. Thanks Vicy. The title of this chapter comes from Ben Howard's song "Esmerelda." I just love him.

* * *

**Wait Until the Lone Sun Breaks**

_by Alice in Somewhereland_

**Chapter 2**

and with such ease the rafters surround us

* * *

It was hardly even a challenge to dodge the forces that had responded to Lamarque's panic call. Eponine followed the Revolutionary, easily running up the fire escape and onto the roof, only to jump to the next building, climb down that fire escape, and disappear into the shadows. She barely broke a sweat.

They went their separate ways with few words, especially on her part. He reminded her – in the way he thought was so intimidating, but really made her want to both hit him and laugh at him – of the importance of keeping Lamarque's location secret.

_"Don't sweat it, pretty boy," she murmured as seductively as she could, patting his cheek a little harder than necessary. She backed away, smirking at what she could only imagine was a glare boring into her from his shaded eyes, and as she turned, tossed a casual, "You're welcome," over her shoulders. Then she melted into the shadows, leaving him behind, silhouetted in the darkness that loved him so. It was a sight to behold, she thought idly, turning to glance back at him before she disappeared into the night; his cape billowing lazily in the cool breeze, and his hair silver and waving in the breeze, and his large hands clenched into fists at his sides, and his gaze undoubtedly glowering in her direction._

It had been several weeks since she had seen him. She hardly minded – she was quite ambivalent toward whoever-he-was, though what managed to annoy her was the fact that he saw her. Repeatedly.

Eponine sat heavily in the desk chair before the monitors, propping up her feet and staring at the top right corner of the screen with interest as she spooned frozen yogurt from the shop around the corner into her mouth. She thought she had just seen–.

"Hey, babe, come here often?" a teasingly seductive voice asked, pulling her from her reverie. Eponine swiveled the chair in surprise to find a girl several years her junior leaning in the doorway, arm propped on the frame and hip popped suggestively.

"Shut up, Azelma," Eponine ordered mildly, grinning at her sister.

Azelma was tall, like Eponine, but was more model than athlete. She was thin as a rail, with legs that went on for miles, and an impeccable sense of fashion. Currently, her hair was dyed a lethal shade of red, one that perfectly matched her honeyed skin tone, and was cut into a short, angled bob.

"But really," Azelma said, walking over to the desk and pulling herself onto it, "You've been spending an awful lot of time in here. What are you looking for?"

"Nothing," Eponine replied, slightly more tersely than she intended.

"Well is someone looking for us?" she asked patiently.

"No."

"Then _what_ is so interesting about being in here that you can go out with Gav, buy him ice cream, but then not spend the time to eat it with him?"

Eponine looked at her sister in surprise. The younger girl was angry, she realized. Their little brother, Gavroche, just barely a teenager, lived with them. In fact, Eponine had raised them – both of them. She had always thought, especially with Gavroche, that she was pretty good at playing mother, father, _and_ sibling simultaneously. She had let them get away with things that she knew other parents wouldn't; whether to attribute that to her own young age and immaturity, or her desire to keep them close to her in a way that didn't have to work around the familial hierarchy of a parent-child relationship, she was unsure, but she thought she had done a decent job. Especially with Gavroche. She emphasized his education over his life on the street, and diligently kept on top of him about his work and being a good student.

She and Azelma – well, Azelma was on the cusp. She was taking fashion and business classes at the community college, but was not a stellar student, nor had she been one in grade school. Eponine desperately wanted to go back to school and get a degree; ironically enough, she wanted to work in a museum – she figured she'd do pretty well, considering her time spent around art as a master thief. Not that that could go on her résumé.

Still, looking at her angry little sister, Eponine couldn't deny how right she was. Recently, Gavroche had started to fall in with a bad crowd. It was easy, in this city, when the government had forsaken all those beneath a certain income level, to get involved with things that were, well, less than savory. It scared her, and she knew it scared Azelma, as they had both been there. In many ways, they still were. No matter how hard Eponine and Azelma tried, it seemed that their brother was slowly slipping into that life.

But Azelma didn't seem to think Eponine was trying hard enough. Luckily, however, Eponine was saved from answering by the flash of golden hair that glinted in the stale orange glow of the street lamp across from her dilapidated apartment building.

She grinned at the computer – noticing Azelma's disapproving scowl out the corner of her eye – and murmured, "You sneaky bastard," at the screen.

"What the hell," Azelma began to ask, turning, before dropping her jaw mid-sentence. "Is that–?"

He was standing, for the first time ever, in full view of her security cameras, silhouetted by the moon and staring out from those masked eyes with what she imagined was a challenging glare. His black cape swept about his calves in the breeze, and his red mask and bright hair shone brilliantly when contrasted in the lights that spilled into the night from apartments with the dark figure he cut in the shadows. There was something equally intoxicating and terrifying about him, but somehow, she knew what he wanted.

"The Revolutionary," Eponine finished for her triumphantly.

"Is he _watching_ us?" Azelma inquired, her disapproval of her older sister's habits suddenly, _gloriously_, forgotten.

"That he is, dear sister," Eponine affirmed, springing from her chair and racing from the room. "Shout if he moves!" she ordered her sister, quickly stripping her clothes and pulling on her own suit. It wasn't so much for him as it was for anyone watching from other buildings or on other security cameras – it would not be safe for a girl such as Eponine to be seen fraternizing with the city's most notorious renegade.

She had _known_ he was sneaking around for weeks. Her suspicions had been aroused before he had sought her out for her knowledge of Lamarque's whereabouts, but since then, she had seen glimpses of him – at night, following her through the streets, waiting outside or on top of buildings as she robbed the inhabitants inside, outside her apartment at night.

It wasn't every night, or if it was, he hid well and made himself scarce by the time Eponine got annoyed enough to even think about approaching him. It was like he knew just how long it would take to piss her off enough that he should disappear; the thought that he knew her that well pissed her off even more. However, the only time she had ever actually considered approaching him from his vantage point was on a night that it was storming. She had donned a raincoat and boots, but he was gone by the time she made it onto her fire escape. Her instincts had told her she would not find him, so she didn't bother going further into the night to make chase. She figured that, despite how annoyed she was that he was studying her private life with her siblings, she would catch him at it eventually and yell at him then.

Tonight, however, he was calling her, asking her to come.

So she did.

* * *

The Revolutionary watched as the Wolf emerged from the shadows, looking at him both warily and hungrily, as though he were her prey but she was unsure of how best to attack.

Her chin was held high, her dark hair flowing behind her wildly, flying like the tatters of a once-loved flag in the wind. She gave off an air of one who was fast approaching the line between relevance and obsolescence, as though very soon, her time would be up and there would be no more thieving, and those who sought her, those who hunted the huntress, would win.

He watched as she approached, her eyes glinting at him in the combination of man-made and natural light, regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and irritation.

"Eponine," he greeted, nodding.

Her jaw clenched. "So I was right," she said, ignoring his greeting and crossing her arms and doing her best to look menacing. He wondered why they even bothered with show anymore; he feared her no more than she him. "You've been watching me."

"I had to make sure you didn't reveal Lamarque's location," he explained.

"I gave you my word," Eponine snapped, clearly affronted. Her chin went up even more; it was as though she was pulling up a barrier between them, protecting herself from his words and his presence and his uncertainty by the sheer effort to make herself seem haughty and untouchable and indifferent.

"I needed to make sure," he replied, pretending he hadn't noticed her take offense.

"Haven't I proven myself yet?" she asked. "You were watching me before I took you to Lamarque's, you've been watching me since. When am I going to seem trustworthy enough for you to leave me alone?"

The Revolutionary shrugged indifferently. "I'd be a fool to trust you," he answered honestly.

Eponine grinned, seemingly in spite of herself. "You're smart, pretty boy," she teased; he could hear the slightly venomous edge to her tone, and wondered how much farther she'd let him push her before she attacked. Her cold smile abruptly faded. "I remain loyal to those who pay me, Revolutionary," she told him matter-of-factly, taking a confident, dominative step forward. "You promised me something in return for my services. And I _always_ get paid, willingly or not. You promised me something, and I will take it if you won't freely give it."

The Revolutionary watched the dangerous figure approach. She was sizing him up, evaluating how much of a threat he was, circling him like the predator she was. But he was a predator as well. Though his hunting was done differently than hers, he could easily play her games.

"I need your help first," he said, watching her closely.

Her eyebrows shot up over her mask.

"No. No, no, no, no," Eponine cooed, trying to keep her unconcerned air. Her tone, however, was strained, and her fists were clenched at her sides, and her jaw was clenched. "That's not what we do. You offered to help me in exchange for _my_ aid. This isn't a 'take-Eponine-for-all-she's-worth' deal where you pay me when you get around to it. I do _one_ thing for you, and you do one for me."

The Revolutionary briefly considered her words. "You're asking a lot of my people. We can deliver, but it takes time. You _will_ receive your payment, but it cannot be instantaneous. Nor is it cheap; simply acting as a tour guide to Lamarque's safehouse is not worth three individual hacks. No, you remain indebted to me based on what you're being paid. When my people tell me we're even, we'll be even."

"So what, I'm your indentured servant until then?" she snapped incredulously, eyes flashing. "You just said yourself, you have _people_. Have _them_ do your bidding. I'm not your dancing monkey, available on your whims, so find someone else. There are other places I'm needed tonight, and I have work of my own that does _not_ involve you."

"You mean ignoring your siblings while you sit in your office watching your monitors for a sign of me?" he asked cheekily.

She scowled at him, and for a moment he thought – almost wished, really – that she would hit him. He had pushed her too far, and done it on purpose. He wanted to see the Wolf howl.

"My life is my business," Eponine snapped. "Aren't there, like, eighty-five of you Amis? Go get one of them to help you. I'm not available at your beck and call, even for what you've promised me."

It was the Revolutionary's turn to take a step closer; he could've reached out and brushed his fingers against the leather of her jumpsuit if he wanted to, and some primitive instinct deep within encouraged him to do so. He pushed away the distraction, unwilling to allow himself to fully wonder what the contrast of her leather to her skin would feel like beneath his fingers.

"Ah, but they aren't you and I, Eponine," he murmured, throwing her name in her face for the first time. "They don't understand why I do a lot of what I do."

"Neither do I."

The Revolutionary grinned, stepping closer yet again, catching the scent of her wild hair as it whipped about her face in the wind.

"But you don't ask questions. They do."

Eponine crossed her arms. "How is any of this my problem?"

"Because they are not willing to do what is necessary, and they do not understand why I must take certain actions. They do not understand the gravity of the situation; no, they are still boys playing at battle, while I'm a man fighting a war," he muttered, absently wondering whether he was talking more to himself or to her.

To his annoyance, Eponine burst out laughing. He bristled beneath his clothes, and found himself baring his teeth at her. This dangerous woman, this feral lone wolf, this untamed creature of the night was getting to him. He wondered whether she would eat him alive.

"A man fighting a war?" she repeated shrilly, still caught in the throes of hilarity. "You know _nothing_," she spat at him, her grin fading to a condescending smirk as she closed in on him, her face inches from his own. "You think you understand us? You, a pretty, bourgeois boy, understand us gutter rats, us miserable dregs of society, scraping from trough to trough for a sliver of hope to take home? No. You understand _nothing_."

"I understand more than you think. I understand that you have a record you can't get rid of. I understand you're doing your best to keep your siblings from following your path, but you and your sister both have _extensive_ records, and your brother is quickly falling victim to the disease that plagues this city. I understand that you fear the day that he just does not come home, or calls you from prison, or passes you on the street – a shell of who he used to be – and does not recognize you."

Eponine let out what appeared to be an involuntary cry of distress, then she turned to him and shoved him so hard she even knocked herself off balance. Still, the Revolutionary persisted.

"My friends live in a fantasy world, but _we_ do not. I know what becomes of people in this city; I've seen it happen firsthand. And I'm determined to stop it."

"You can't," she croaked at him, the uncertainty that he could not see in her shadowed eyes all the clearer in her voice.

It was his turn to laugh; cold, ominous, humorless. "I understand, too, you know. My friends all think they will come out of this unscathed. They think one day they'll unmask, face an adoring crowd of fans, be rewarded with money and women and notoriety for what they've done for this city. But we know differently, you and I. Don't even think I don't understand, because I do." His voice was hoarse, almost desperate, and he knew he had struck a chord with her. "There's no way to be who we are and come out of this alive, Eponine."

She shook her head, but said nothing.

"I know you want to do right by your brother and sister, Eponine. But you're a smart woman. You know exactly where all of this is going to end. You'll get what you need to help them as best you can, but you can't fool yourself anymore than I can fool you. You grew up here, and you have perhaps the harshest view of reality. You understand as well as I do what that means."

"No," she snapped, breaking his trancelike hold over her and stepping away, as though distance from him would distance his words as well. "There is no 'we.' You and I are not the same. I do not plan on dying anytime soon. In fact, I plan on living an _obnoxiously_ long life. That begins with doing my work and keeping my head down, not getting mixed up with your convoluted attempts to change the status quo."

"Don't you want to help Gavroche and Azelma? Don't you–."

"Do not, for a _moment_, presume to know a thing about me, _Revolutionary_," Eponine retorted venomously, rounding on him with the quick grace of the wolf for which she was named. "You think you know me so well, because you've been stalking me for weeks. Because you know my name and you watch me through my fucking window and you've learned about my brother and sister. You try to keep me guessing, to keep me subordinate to you, because you act like you know me so well when I don't even know your name. But really, you don't know anything about me. So don't pretend like you can use your pretty, urgent words on me, like they'll get me to take up arms and fight your little war beside you simply because I don't bother you as much as your friends." She shoved him, then turned and walked purposefully away, floating across the roof like a shadow. As she turned to climb down the ladder, she snapped, "You're on your own, bro. Good luck, and leave me the fuck alone."

Then she was gone.

* * *

_There will be no escaping this time. The boy has slipped up, and _I_ have won._

_He will lead me to the rest of les Amis._

_He will lead me to the criminal Valjean._

_He will lead me to _salvation_._

_No, there is no escape. He is a broken child; surrounded by the authority he so violently denounces, with nowhere to turn, no one to go to. _

_Try and run, Revolutionary. Ah, but you can't._

_No, the city will once again rest in peace._

* * *

Eponine emerged from her room, now changed back into her sweatpants, still bristling. She joined Gavroche on the couch and tried to focus on an episode of _The Simpsons_ with him, but she could not. The Revolutionary's words were still running over and over and over through the rivers and streams of her mind.

Eventually, she gave up, and picked up a sketchbook and pencil from the coffee table, allowing her mind to empty and wander.

The lead glided across the thick paper as if of its own accord, slowly allowing her frustration and _fear_ to dissipate, allowing the drawing to absorb all her tension and negative energy. As her racing mind began to quiet, she opened herself back up to the chatter of her siblings, their laughter at whatever program it was they were watching.

She was almost finished the drawing – a detailed crescent moon with an exotic city sprouting from its alien rock – when an odd noise came from the hall. It sounded like something falling, followed by the _thud_ of something heavy hitting the door.

Eponine stood, motioning for her younger siblings to stay where they were, and crept to the front door. When she peered through the peephole, there was nothing she could see but a smear of blood – it looked like a bloody handprint, actually – across the wall adjacent to the door.

She leapt back in shock, heart racing as she darted into her room. She returned with a handgun, ignoring Azelma and Gavroche as their wide eyes followed her movements.

Carefully, quietly, she approached the door, turning the handle as slowly as possible, then yanking open the door with her gun pointed straight into the hallway.

"_Jesus fucking Christ!_"

Before she could even see who it was, a body toppled onto her _heavily_, knocking her to the ground under its weight. They lay tangled in the foyer of her small apartment, Eponine trying her hardest to suck air back into lungs that had expelled her breath too quickly, trying to free her gun arm from under the dead weight of the groaning sack of skin, trying to spit someone else's hair out of her mouth.

Something wet was seeping onto her arm, and she laboriously wriggled her way from beneath the human, rolling him off her and standing, stumbling backwards and away from him in terror. Hands gripped her from behind, startling and steadying her, and she turned to Gavroche, who was staring at the intruder with wide eyes.

It was he; it was the Revolutionary.

"What the _everliving fuck_ are you doing here?" she cried, only half conscious of the fact that she was probably waking up half the street.

"Eponine," Azelma whispered from behind, placing a hand on her shoulder and examining her arm, wet with blood that was not hers, "He's hurt."

Eponine sucked in a breath, about to start screaming again, when she caught sight of him: laying in a pathetic huddle on the floor, moaning in pain, bleeding all over the foyer.

"Jesus Christ," she repeated, gingerly approaching him. She placed a hand on his shoulder, and he shuddered at her touch, or maybe from the pain. She couldn't really tell.

"What the hell happened?" she murmured to him, still stuck between shock and awe.

"Help me," he rasped, voice wrought with agony and fear. His eyes were still concealed behind his stupid red mask.

Without a second thought, Eponine slipped an arm around his shoulder, sitting him up. He cried out in pain, but did not fight her when she pulled his arm over her shoulder. "Gavroche," she called, rousing the young boy from his shocked observance.

He did not hesitate, immediately coming to help her lift the vigilante. They half-dragged, half-carried him to Eponine's room, depositing him carefully onto her bed. He moaned again, and Eponine briefly considered taping his mouth shut.

She found the source of the blood – a grisly slash in his side, just below his ribs – and shouted for scissors and a few trash bags.

Gavroche raced in with the items a few moments later, and Azelma followed, close on his heels, with a First Aid Kit.

"Gav," Eponine said absently, rolling the Revolutionary a bit to push one of the bags beneath him so he wouldn't bleed out all over her bed, "Go clean up the blood. There are handprints on the walls out in the hallway. Make sure you go the whole way downstairs and even outside. And be quick about it, and thorough. We don't want anyone following him up here or anything."

Gavroche immediately turned and exited the room, though neither Eponine nor Azelma noticed, as they both were leaning over the bleeding boy, heads together above his abdomen as Eponine struggled to remove the thick, heavy, protective layers he had on.

Honestly, it was a wonder someone managed to get anything in there. It was good body armor – strong, but light, and thick – though clearly not indestructible.

When they finally managed to cut through the layers of cloth and armor, the wound revealed itself. The coppery scent of blood hit Eponine's nose instantly; she tasted bile in her mouth. The gruesome sight that accompanied the gushing blood almost expelled her dinner.

"Oh my god," she whispered, trying not to be sick.

"This is bad," Azelma agreed, though she hardly looked worse for the wear. She had always been into medicine and anatomy and everything, so she probably found this _cool_. Eponine was no pansy, that was for sure, and she could stomach a lot, but _not_ a self-proclaimed superhero bleeding to death on her own bed. _Not_ a wound like _that_. "Should we call an ambulance?" she asked Eponine, eyes wide.

"_No_," hissed the older woman, taking just a moment to stare incredulously across the bed. "You idiot, if we call the cops, he'll be caught, and they'll look into _us_ for aiding him, and for him coming the whole way up here to us, and we'll be just as fucked as him. No, we have to figure this out on our own."

Without waiting any longer, and without responding, Azelma ripped open all the gauze that was in the small Kit, and pressed down on his wound with both hands, hoping to slow the blood loss by applying pressure.

He gasped in pain, crying out, and grabbed Eponine's hand, startling her. She had almost forgotten that he was still _there_, in the sense of him being conscious and cohesive. He pulled her close, close enough that she had to sit down on the edge of the bed next to him and lean in.

"I'm dying," he hissed.

"No," she replied half-heartedly. Eponine had never been one to sugarcoat anything, and even trying now, even to bring him peace, was too difficult for her.

"My friends," he rasped, squeezing her hand as tightly as he could. It wasn't a tight grasp at all. "Joly and – and Combeferre. They're – doctors. You'll have to – fetch them."

"I don't even know where they are!" Eponine exclaimed.

"A grate on – the other end of – Shadyside. Down on the – corner of 10th and – and Mondétour. Go in. Follow it until – the fork, take the left. Take the first – tunnel to the – right, then the – middle fork. Follow it – down, past the – 15th Ave metro stop – then take the tunnel – on the left. At the end – is our hideout. You'll find everyone – there. Got it?" He was gripping her tightly, pulling her close to him as he gasped out the directions, as though he could transfer the route from his head to hers through osmosis or sheer power of will.

"I'll remember," she promised, sincerely hoping she would. She could end up lost down there for years if she didn't. Then rather than just a dead revolutionary, there would be two dead twenty-something criminals in the heart of the city. "But how will they trust me? They're not just going to let someone waltz in and lure them out with the promise of their dying leader two miles away."

"Tell them – tell them 'Enjolras.' 'Enjolras' sent you," he replied faintly, and his hand slipped from her grasp, just as he slipped from consciousness.

She was about to shout in his ear, trying to keep him awake, when Azelma snapped, "Go! Gav and I will take care of him. The sooner you come back with help, the better off he'll be. The better off we'll _all_ be."

Eponine bolted into her room, stripping her clothes as she ran, and pulled her leather suit on, then her boots, then finally her mask and gloves. She took only a moment to scrawl down the Revolutionary's instructions – hoping to _god_ she remembered them correctly, before running from the room and into the little office, slipping easily onto the fire escape and into the night.

* * *

_To be continued.._


	3. Chapter 3

Welcome back to those who are already here, and welcome to all the new readers!

Thank you all for keeping up or getting involved, and for the encouraging and excited reviews I've received.

Sorry to keep you all waiting, but I'm afraid that you all will have to wait quite a bit for chapter 4, as I am planning on participating in NaNoWriMo (for the first time ever!) and probably will not be able to write another chapter and post it before November starts. So patience is appreciated! I'll try and write a little bit, but NaNoWriMo will have to take preference because that's just how it worked! But hopefully the end of this chapter isn't too bad to leave you with until next time.

And, hopefully to soften the semi-hiatus blow, this chapter is extra long. Seriously, it's nearly 7,000 words. But there is an outline to adhere to, so all of this had to stay here. Hopefully you're not _too_ disappointed, dear reader.

**Warnings:** Violence, blood, weapons, probably language, eventual sex is likely, idek what else

**Disclaimer:** Only this interpretation is mine.

* * *

**Wait Until the Lone Sun Breaks**

_by Alice in Somewhereland_

**Chapter 3**

here i'm turned inside out, yet you choose not to see

* * *

_It's getting exhausting, and Louis-Philippe is getting impatient._

_Violence rules this city, not Louis-Philippe. He turns a blind eye where he could have an effect; he makes no attempt to control or dissuade or punish. I fear his corruption. But my job is to protect him, to protect the innocent people from faceless menaces like Les Amis and Jean Valjean. Their anarchy cannot be tolerated, but can inadequacy and negligence be permitted, especially when the so-called leaders of a society are the very ones committing such infractions?_

_The people are abased, impoverished, _afraid._ I myself am doubtful. But, as I have said, my dear, my job is not to doubt. My job is to defend until there is proof that I should fight. I still believe in this city, in the government, in my job and my role in it. I believe in the law, if not always in our officials, and I am sure that I am the wall between good and evil, dark and light, and that I easily can recognize the difference between them. _

_Our society is not perfect; this city is debased and failing, but the election is coming, and I believe in the people's voice being heard. No matter who wins, _they_ will choose. And whatever happens, whatever the result may be, I wholeheartedly believe that that is what is meant to be the outcome._

_Do not show this letter to any, my darling. Do not be careless with its contents. I deliver it directly to your door in lieu of staying and telling you these things myself, because the trail of Valjean and the vigilantes known as Les Amis remains hot. I am closing in, and I will see you soon._

_With unconditional love,_

_J._

* * *

The lair, the hideout, the batcave, or _whatever_ les Amis wanted to call it, was well hidden. Though the entrance was only a few blocks from Eponine's apartment, it was difficult to find them, and even with the directions the Revolutionary – well, _Enjolras_, she supposed – provided, she briefly got lost twice before she managed to find her way.

However, once she got close enough, she was not even a little uncertain that she was in the right place. Both light and sound spilled from a corridor off to the left like the water that had undoubtedly once flowed through these tunnels. Chatter and chuckles and the clanging of weapons met her ears before she even turned the corner, and no one even noticed her presence until she was halfway into their area.

It was a dead end, and what had once been the start of three tunnels on each side of the corridor were now two large, open rooms. At the dead end were several mixed and matched couches, chairs, and against the wall immediately across from her was a wall of computers and television monitors.

Lounging on the couches were four men and a dark-haired woman, and a blonde woman was seated in a desk chair facing the monitors. They did not notice her enter.

To Eponine's left was a wall of weapons of all kinds, and several large mats placed together to make two practice rings. Workout equipment was pushed against the walls on either side of the mats. Two men – one of medium height, slight build, and shiny black hair pulled into a short ponytail, the other of roughly the same height, but with curly, dark brown hair – sparred on one of the makeshift fields.

To her right was what appeared to be a medical area in half of the space, with two operating tables and several cabinets and bins and cupboards that were teeming over with supplies. The other half had mats like the sparring ground, but a tall man with sandy-blonde hair and glasses was using it for Tai Chi. He turned slowly, and as he did so, caught sight of her.

"Who the _hell_ are you?" he asked loudly, standing up straight and abandoning his exercises.

The place immediately went both silent and still – the sparring pair disentangled instantly, whirling to face her. The group on the couches and the blonde in the chair all turned to stare, and another man appeared from against the wall in the lounge area, looking as though he had just woken up.

A long, tense moment passed, in which Eponine regarded each of the shocked, angry, suspicious, and accusatory countenances that faced her. Then, almost simultaneously, the group in the lounge rose and approached her, as did the two sparring. The sandy-haired man came to stand directly in front of her. He was _very_ tall.

"I need your help," she replied coolly, staring at him challengingly from behind her mask. "There was an attack, your–"

"_Who the hell are you?"_ he repeated, cutting her off.

The dark haired woman – a tall, skinny girl with mocha skin and suspicious eyes stepped forward, regarding Eponine with a look that bordered on appraising and a hand clearly within easy reach of some sort of weapon. Suddenly, Eponine felt naked, as though this girl could see right through her**,** like this woman had taken all of her control with her single step forward. It wasn't common for her to encounter anyone who, at least when she was appearing as the Wolf, wasn't afraid of her. And even when she was just herself, just Eponine, she _still_ usually felt intimidating enough to feel comfortably, smugly, in control.

The woman did not take her dark eyes from Eponine's as, smirking, she told the sandy-haired man, "Don't you know? She's the Wolf. Obviously."

Eponine regarded her for a moment longer without response, then broke the eye contact to look back at her interrogator. "Your friend _Enjolras_ sent me," she announced loudly, looking around as surprise dawned on each face – even the dark girl's. Oh yes; _now_ she was back in control. Confidence suddenly surged through her veins, and she sauntered closer to the tall man, telling him with the ghost of a smirk on her mouth and solemnity in her voice, "He got nicked out being a _badass_ on his own. He showed up at my door, and now my brother and sister are back at home trying to keep him from bleeding out on my bed. He sent me here before he passed out, and told me that a few of you are doctors. Or med students, whatever. So, if you wanna save him, you better _hurry_. I hear death comes quick for revolutionaries."

It seemed to be enough, for several of the people surrounding her seemed placated, but her interrogator and the dark-haired girl stood stalwart and glaring.

"How do we know we can trust you?" the sandy-haired man asked suspiciously.

Eponine held up two fingers in front of her. "First, how the hell else would I find my way down here?" she asked, lowering her forefinger and leaving her middle finger pointing high at. With a smirk, she wiggled it as she said, "Second, how the hell else would I know your Revolutionary's name is Enjolras?"

Even the dark-haired woman's gaze lightened for a moment, before she shoved the sandy-haired man in the direction of the medical area.

Moments later, she, the sandy-haired man, the one who appeared to have rolled out of bed, and a tall man with straight brown hair were hurrying Eponine back through the tunnels.

As they went, they introduced themselves. Eponine's interrogator was named Combeferre, the woman was Musichetta, the sleepy boy was Feuilly, and the brunette was Joly. Apparently, Joly and Combeferre were doctors; Joly was in his first year of residency at one of the city hospitals, and Combeferre was just finishing up his degree.

Not ten minutes later, they were racing up the stairs in her rundown apartment building, bursting through the door and scaring the living hell out of poor Azelma, who was still trying to apply pressure to the unconscious man bleeding out on Eponine's bed.

Joly and Combeferre were quick to banish everyone from the room, keeping only Musichetta with them for help. She slammed the door behind her, and suddenly everything was silent and still, as though a storm had moved on just as suddenly as it had appeared.

Azelma shuddered, smeared in blood up to her elbows, and, without a word, retreated to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Moments later, it opened again – steam began seeping from the shower behind her – as she announced that she was leaving the door unlocked in case someone needed supplies for the dying boy.

That left Eponine, Gavroche, and Feuilly standing alone and awkward in the living room. Unaccustomed to and unhappy with the feeling, Eponine quickly excused herself to change from her leather and back into her sweats. She wasn't sorry for leaving Gavroche – it was every man for himself in this household. The relief that swept over her body as she changed washed away some of the tension, though she envied Azelma's shower.

When she emerged, Gavroche and Feuilly were deep in conversation about some videogame or something, but as boring as the conversation was, she joined them anyway. No, she did not trust this boy. She didn't trust any of them, especially the Revolutionary – no, _Enjolras_ – and especially after all of this, and definitely not enough to leave her baby brother alone with one of them (so perhaps it wasn't quite as "every man for himself" after all).

Eponine didn't know how long she sat there, both straining to hear something from her bedroom and wishing unsuccessfully for this freak show to leave, before Azelma opened the door. It seemed she had forgotten that Feuilly was there, because she emerged from the bathroom wrapped loosely in a towel that showed off a little too much leg and cleavage. She smiled wantonly at the stranger, though, and swept by him in a cloud of steam and heat and lavender soap to enter her room. He watched her go, entranced, and as she closed the door behind her, she carefully pulled of the towel, flashing both Eponine and Feuilly (though not Gavroche, who was, thankfully, watching TV) the full expanse of her toned back and just the _very_ top of her rear.

Eponine rolled her eyes, and cleared her throat as the door closed. Feuilly snapped his eyes back to her, cheeks flushed with what she chose to read as shame and embarrassment.

They waited in silence – her glaring, him avoiding her gaze, and Gavroche watching a show – until Azelma reemerged.

"So," she said, toweling dry her bright red hair and plopping unceremoniously into a chair, "Are you, like, a superhero or something?"

Feuilly shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and Eponine wondered if it was because of his feelings on the word "superhero" or her sister's purposefully revealing short shorts and low-cut tank top. Eponine just gave her a look. Azelma winked.

"We're just trying to fix the dysfunction in this city. The people are suffering, and no one is doing anything. I don't know if that makes us superheroes, but yes, I am involved, if that helps."

Azelma leaned forward, propping her elbow on her knee and resting her chin on the palm of her hand. Eponine rolled her eyes as her sister's black, lace bra popped out a bit, exaggerating her cleavage. Feuilly flushed, and tried to look away.

"So, what's your superpower?" Azelma asked, ignoring both of her siblings and staring tantalizingly at her prey.

"Azelma, can you _not_?" Eponine asked exasperatedly. Azelma just wrinkled her brow and pouted innocently in her direction.

"What?" she asked. "I'm curious!" Turning her attention back to Feuilly with narrowed eyes, she added, "It's not every day that we have several superheroes sitting in our living room." She bit her lip suggestively.

"Yes it is," Eponine answered dryly. Feuilly was bright red and looking everywhere but Azelma, and Eponine, in spite of herself, actually felt a little bad for him. Azelma came on strong. "I'm here literally every night."

Azelma glowered in her direction. "No, you're not," she replied bitingly. Eponine wasn't sure whether she was referring to being a superhero or to her presence in the apartment.

But Feuilly cleared his throat, clearly trying to prevent the sisters from fighting and attempting to sound and look confident as he told them, "I make things. Our weapons, our tools. I build them. I fight too, if I need to, but mostly I make the toys."

Azelma raised her eyebrows and leaned back in her seat, crossing her legs and looking pleased. "Oh, you make _toys?_" she asked seductively.

The poor boy flushed a truly frightening and impressive shade of pink, and, upon discussing "superpowers," Gavroche had paused his videogame and turned his apt attention on the older man.

"Azelma!" Eponine snapped, flicking her head in their brother's direction. Her sister just crumpled back in the chair, crossing her arms and pouting.

She wasn't sure how long they sat there after that; occasionally Azelma would try to goad poor Feuilly a bit, but eventually, Gavroche captured his attention, distracting everyone as he whooped Feuilly's ass at _MarioKart_ on the Wii.

They all started when the door to Eponine's bedroom slammed open, revealing a tired and blood-splattered Musichetta, followed closely by Joly, whose arms were red up to the elbows.

Musichetta sighed, glancing around at everyone, before her eyes settled on Feuilly. She looked worn, and her face was tight as she announced, "He's going to be fine. Combeferre gave him some meds for pain that should help him sleep through the night. He'll be here the next couple days." She directed the last part at Eponine, who had to keep from sighing dejectedly.

What had she expected? A nearly mortal wound and suffering from extreme blood loss; of course that meant Enjolras couldn't be moved.

Azelma sprung to her feet, showing Joly and Musichetta to the bathroom, where they could clean up a bit. Feuilly and Eponine crept to the bedroom. The former strode in confidently, sitting gently on the bed and inspecting the golden statue that lay without movement, but she stopped herself at the door. The room seemed foreign, and frightening, and smelled of death and blood.

Combeferre glanced at them as he continued to organize his things.

"I need to go back and restock on some supplies," he announced. Eponine thought she had never heard someone sound so weary. She wondered how hard it was to be a doctor and have to work like this, _especially_ when the patient is a close friend.

Combeferre sat on the edge of the bed, gently laying his hand on Enjolras' arm, a gesture of concern and fear and tender reverence. The unconscious man did not even twitch. In that touch, Eponine could almost _feel_ years upon years of friendship, of trials and tribulations and the kind of close calls only childhood friends can have, when monsters still live in closets and under beds and not in government offices or in one's mind.

"Will you stay?" he asked over his friend's body; Feuilly nodded in reply.

Combeferre left, joining Musichetta and Joly in the bathroom to clean his friend's blood from himself, before returning to finish collecting his things. After that gentle touch, he was studiously ignoring his friend.

"I'll be back tomorrow morning. There are bandages and drugs here in case he wakes or begins bleeding again, but he's closed up pretty tight and should be fine." And he left, without looking back. Feuilly glanced at her, and followed him, Joly close behind.

Musichetta came and sat in Feuilly's place, staring at the unconscious man. She reached up, tenderly brushing a golden curl out of the Revolutionary's – _Enjolras'_ – eyes. A sad half-smile quirked the corner of one of her lips, and she ran a delicate hand through her long, black hair. "He looks so peaceful like this," she murmured, almost more to herself than to Eponine. Then her affectionate smile fell. "It's too damn uncharacteristic," she said bitterly, glaring at everything in the room but the two other people.

Glancing at Eponine, she swept out.

The revolutionaries, the _heroes_, as Gavroche so excitedly called them, departed a few minutes later. She watched them go, as Azelma and her brother helped Feuilly make up a bed on the sleeper sofa and get comfortable. She could hear her sister chiding the young boy about keeping their guest up all night playing video games; no, instead she sent him to bed.

Yet Eponine watched the trio of medics go; she watched the dejected, slow marches of exhausted and frightened and heartbroken people. She watched the drooping shoulders. She watched Musichetta slip her hand into Joly's and take Combeferre's arm before they rounded the corner. And she sighed, closing the door quietly behind them, slowly turning the bolts and suddenly feeling more tired than she could ever remember.

Feuilly was not at his bed – he must've been in the bathroom – and her siblings were gone as well.

And her bedroom loomed. She stopped in the doorway, staring him down, how the lights that spilled from the room glinted off his golden hair and that pale, bare chest of his, still barely sprouting with the course hair so many men his age had. Her eyes fell to the bandaged patch in his side, where some weapon – Christ, she still didn't even know _what_ it was – had brought him, bleeding and desperate and dying, to her door for aid.

And now he was unconscious in her bed.

Eponine had no choice; the sleeper sofa was taken, and there was nowhere else for her to sleep. It was her room or the floor.

She had a couch pressed up against the wall, an older one, certainly not the most comfortable, but when covered with an extra, cushy mattress pad from the closet and a sheet and comforter and two of her pillows that she had stolen from the side of the bed _he_ wasn't using, it wasn't too bad.

She was certain sleep would elude her, that she would be partially concerned of him dying in the middle of the night, or that the stimulating events of the day would overtake her mind, but as soon as she lay down on her makeshift bed, the world went black. Somewhere, she recognized how emotionally and physically draining the whole event had been; but that thought was pushed to the back of her mind as she followed _him_ into the unconsciousness that had claimed him hours ago, and she could only hope that it would be far less painful than what she imagined his to be.

* * *

Eponine wasn't sure whether the shitty sleep she got was thanks to sleeping on a couch (albeit a fairly comfortable one, as far as couches go) or to the golden superhero that had almost died in her bed. She felt as though she jolted out of a nightmare every few minutes, only to wish that her own heart would beat more quietly so she could ensure his was still beating. She thought she kept hearing him thrashing in his wounded sleep, but each time she sat up and squinted across the room, through the darkness, he was still laying there, golden hair splayed and glinting in the moonlight that spilled in the window, head lolled to the side in nearly the same position it had been since they had deposited him there. Those were some strong drugs Combeferre and Joly gave him. Eponine wondered if sleep would come if she took some.

But morning came eventually, and when Eponine woke from what turned out to be a few restless hours, opening bleary eyes to stare across at the naked chest rising and falling peacefully in sleep, she knew she couldn't spend any more time in that room without a bit of a break.

She got up, and crept to his side, tenderly checking the dressing on his wound. It was a bit bloody, but was holding tight, so she figured it would be fine until Combeferre arrived to take care of him.

It was still extremely early, she realized upon leaving her room and pulling the door shut noiselessly behind her; Feuilly was still fast asleep and snoring lightly on the pull-out sofa, and there was no sound or movement from either of her siblings' rooms. She crept to the bathroom, doing her best to stay quiet and not wake him, and disappeared behind the door, closing it as carefully as she had her bedroom door.

Moments later, Eponine found herself, _finally_, in the solitude of a hot shower. It would only be a brief respite, as she was certain Combeferre would be arriving early (she was sure that he probably slept less soundly than she had), but it felt good to wash what remained of Enjolras' dried blood from her person. She watched, with chills, despite the scalding water, as it feathered down the drain in pink spirals, as though it were paint or bad memories washing away.

She hurried up after that, feeling increasingly uncomfortable at the thought of leaving Enjolras alone in her room in such a state, even though Combeferre had said he would be okay and Feuilly and her siblings were there.

She emerged a few minutes later feeling refreshed, albeit uneasy, though Feuilly was still fast asleep on the couch and there was no movement from Azelma or Gavroche.

When Eponine returned to her bedroom, closing the door silently behind her, she was surprised to find Enjolras groaning lightly. At first, she thought he was waking up, so she hissed his name quietly.

"Enjolras?" Her heart was beating rapidly, though she hardly knew why – perhaps she was still afraid that he would die in her bed. He just kind of jerked at her whisper, and continued moaning as his head lolled around slowly.

Creeping closer, she realized that he was still in the throes of sleep, but what had been silent and tranquil only twenty minutes ago had now deteriorated to fitful and agitated. She wondered if it was the pain of his wound or the nightmares it had surely given him.

Unsure of what exactly to do, Eponine sat carefully on the edge of the bed, every nerve in her body on alert. Injured or not, the man was a superhuman of some sort, and she wasn't about to let her guard down when he could surely thrash out, even in sleep.

She hesitantly reached out a hand, covering his own, which twitched under hers. She was surprised to find that his finders were ice cold.

"Enjolras," she whispered again, "wake up!"

When he only whimpered slightly in response, Eponine felt her heart melting a bit. It must have been quite a nightmare.

She could relate.

So she reached out her other hand, gently smoothing back the damp, golden curls that were stuck to his sweaty and hot forehead.

"Enjolras," she tried again, voice stronger this time as she tenderly stroked his head, "wake _up_." She felt oddly protective in that moment, like she did whenever Gavroche was ill and she would put him to bed. It was eerie, that all at once it was so familiar and so natural to be touching him like this, as though he were someone very dear to her and _not_ some rebellious superhero she hardly knew. Her heart quickened with unease.

His eyelids fluttered, and he groaned again, but when he _still_ didn't wake up, she found herself sighing exaggeratedly and snapped, "Enjolras, wake _the fuck_ up all ready."

Surprisingly – or, perhaps not, given her exasperation and the volume of her voice – his eyelids slowly opened this time.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, she was struck by just how _blue_ his eyes were, like, if she weren't careful, she would fall into their depths and drown in their currents and power. They were murky depths, cloudy and confused and pained, but as blue as the sea and just as hypnotic.

Enjolras stared up at her, and Eponine became immediately aware of two things: first, how ridiculous she must look, leaning over him and staring into his eyes with what she was sure was a startling expression; second, that one of her hands was still covering his and the other was still tangled in his curls.

She cleared her throat awkwardly, and gently removed her hands from his person, suddenly aware of just how shirtless he was. Still, she would not allow her face to flush, to show him any weakness or to let him think, even in his groggy and drugged state, that he had any kind of affect on her.

"What happened?" he rasped, his eyelids drooping against the morning sunlight.

"You had quite a close call," she replied, unsure of what to do with her hands. She anchored them between her thighs, figuring that at least that would keep her from fidgeting.

"Where am I?"

"My _bed_," she answered indignantly, though mildly. His tired eyes laboriously rose to meet her own, and she offered him a small smirk.

"Help me sit up a bit?" he asked.

Eponine wasn't sure whether it was a good idea, but she couldn't blame him for wanting to move a bit. She couldn't help thrashing around in her sleep; she didn't know what she would do if she had to spend an entire night in one position.

Still, she was afraid of the wound reopening, and that very concern had her unintentionally raking her gaze down Enjolras' stupidly defined chest to rest on the bandage covering the ragged wound. She told herself that she was concerned for her mattress, for how she would sleep in this room if he ripped himself open again and bled out on her bed. But really, all that flashed through her mind as she stared at it was the image of him lying unconscious and bleeding in this very spot, of his groans in the doorway and how he had choked out, with emotion she never believed she would hear from him, "I'm dying," as he collapsed into darkness, of how the wound was angry and oozing and smelly and the sight of his insides had very nearly unnerved her.

"I don't think you understand how bad it is," she heard herself whisper.

"I don't care, I want to sit up," he retorted, his voice absent of its commanding edge, even though he was clearly trying. He just sounded tired.

With a resigned sigh, Eponine slipped an arm under his bare shoulders, utterly conscious of his weight on her for the _second_ time in twenty-four hours, and pulled him up. He inhaled quickly, and she stopped, panicking, looking at his face.

"I'm sorry!" she cried.

His face was twisted with discomfiture, a closed-lipped grimace clearly holding back a cry of pain. He just shook his head, and she quickly pulled pillows from the other side of her bed and stuffed them behind his back; his golden curls brushed her hair as she leaned around him, and she got a whiff of sweat and fear and soap as she helped lower him back. He wriggled, wincing and hissing in pain as he tried to get comfortable, then collapsed back against the pillows.

"Better," he told her, but his mouth was still curled into a pained grimace.

Eponine sighed, not believing him, and reached to her nightstand for the bottle of pills Combeferre had left behind. She popped the lid and wordlessly handed it to Enjolras, who accepted it with a relieved look. She picked up her water bottle, the one she always kept by her bed, and opened it as well, holding it as she waited for him to get the pills.

He unceremoniously dumped the bottle into his hand, shaking several out into his palm.

"Whoa, there, buddy," Eponine said, grinning at him and propping herself once again next to him on the edge of her bed. "If you're not careful, you'll wake up tomorrow to find you've joined the French Foreign Legion."

"The French Foreign Legion?" he repeated incredulously, staring at her with mild amusement as she replaced all but two pills into the bottle.

She shrugged as she handed him the water. "It was something my grandfather used to say all the time, whenever we would take medicine or something. He used to tell us tall tales all the time, but one of his favorites was that he was conscripted into the French Foreign Legion in his early twenties. We never believed him, growing up – that is, until he started speaking Arabic to someone in the streets one day. Then he showed us the pictures."

"Sounds like a fascinating man," Enjolras commented between gulps of water.

Eponine nodded, an absent smile on her face as she remembered. "Fascinating, and a much better one that my own father. Grandpère was – well, it doesn't matter," she amended, catching herself before she said too much. "He's long gone," she finished, looking away from the boy in her bed and out the window with a carefully blank expression.

"I'm sorry," he said after a moment, and it sounded sincere.

A moment of awkward, tense silence passed between them – Eponine could feel the heat radiating from his body, and she wondered if he could feel hers as well.

Enjolras cleared his throat, then said, "I hope I didn't frighten your siblings too badly last night."

Eponine rolled her eyes, looking back at him with a slight smile. "I'm _never_ going to hear the end of it from Gavroche," she replied. "I think he thinks Feuilly is just about the coolest human on earth. I can't imagine what it'll be like when the rest of your crew inevitably show up to check on you. I'll never hear the end of it."

Enjolras grinned, and she could see in Enjolras' smile that he knew exactly what she was thinking – that him being obsessed with these _superheroes_, as Gav called them, was far better than him getting sucked into the street culture that left boys his age on the fast track to a bloody, violent death.

"And Azelma?"

"Oh, Azelma is Azelma. She takes everything in stride – actually, I think she was pretty excited that you came here, of all places. She may look like the stereotypical airheaded fashion snob, but she is fascinated by that kind of stuff. She always talked about being a surgeon when we were kids."

"What's she like?" he asked, sounding genuinely interested.

Eponine shrugged. "She's a firecracker – short temper, sarcastic, witty, devilishly smart, and the biggest flirt of anyone I've ever met."

"Sounds a lot like you," he remarked, earning a teasing glare.

"First of all, I'm not a flirt. Second of all, we're very different."

"How so?" he challenged, a small smirk lighting up his face. She noticed how much younger, how less severe he looked when he was smiling at her rather than frowning. He looked like a man his age should – carefree, unconcerned, _happy_. Not serious and obsessed and almost militant.

"Well, the thing with Azelma is… she's kind of – ok, let me put it into perspective for you: Azelma is the kind of girl who is nice to telemarketers."

Enjolras just raised his eyebrows.

"Seriously! She likes to say, 'it's not their fault,' and 'they're just doing their jobs' whenever one calls and I get pissed off."

"And you're not nice to telemarketers?" he asked evenly, eyes narrowed studiously, as though he had just found out something remarkable about her and was doing his best to take the news with an unconcerned air.

Eponine sniffed. "I think that telemarketers know what they're getting into when they sign up. And what, is this a new way to judge someone? 'Oh, _he's_ not nice to telemarketers, _we must shun him!_' I mean, really. It's ridiculous."

Enjolras was grinning when she finished her little tirade, and Eponine smiled back. She was finding that she quite liked him like this, all kind and humorous and laid back; she wondered if this was just how he _was_, or if it were the affect of the pills he was taking.

They sat in silence that was comfortable only for a moment.

"You're kind to do this for me," he told her as soon as it started getting awkward. "I know you're not particularly thrilled about being connected with me and my friends, but I appreciate you saving my life. I'm in your debt."

She had no idea what to say, and if he was embarrassed by his sudden, serious offer of thanks, he didn't show it; though, he didn't even attempt to hide the fact that he was staring at her. Those blue eyes followed her own as she did her best to look everywhere _but_ him, as she got more and more flustered, especially when she remembered that the reason she was getting to know him on this slightly more intimate level was the reason why he was _half naked and unable to get out of her bed_.

Oh the jokes Azelma would make.

However, she was saved by a knock on the door. She instinctively jumped away from Enjolras' heat and shirtlessness and awkward gratitude as Feuilly poked his head inside.

"Feuilly!" Enjolras exclaimed with surprise. "I didn't know you were here."

"Yeah," the other man replied, stepping into the room and walking over to his friend. He smiled at Eponine as he walked past her, and shook Enjolras' hand. "I slept on the couch last night in case I was needed."

"You? You sleep like a log. That was possibly the worst decision ever," Enjolras joked – _joked!_ – as Eponine silently backed away, doing her best to melt into the wall.

Feuilly grinned in response. "Yeah, well, it was good you didn't need me then."

She slipped out, leaving the two men to their conversation, _feeling_ Enjolras' gaze on her as she exited.

As soon as the door was closed behind her, Eponine expelled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She wasn't sure what exactly had set her so on edge – perhaps his kind words, perhaps his complete and total 180 from the Revolutionary persona she had come to associate with him – but she had started to feel claustrophobic in her own apartment, in her own bedroom, and the relief of being away from those _eyes_ and that golden _fucking_ body was immeasurable.

She retreated to the kitchen, where she got started making pancakes. She was hungry, and did not doubt that both of the men were starving, and her siblings as well. Not to mention the fact that, whenever the Amis showed up, they would probably want to eat as well.

Eponine enjoyed cooking, and baking especially, as it was a mindless and easy activity. She didn't have to think about her uncharacteristic conversation with Enjolras, didn't have to wonder if he was this – this _human_ when he wasn't the Revolutionary. She hadn't much thought about it, but she had mostly figured that he was always an intense and severe anarchist (though he would likely be affronted with her choice of vocabulary to describe him).

Gavroche and Azelma appeared about halfway through the batter, both filling up plates to take to the boys (Azelma was _more_ than happy to deliver pancakes to Feuilly, and came back looking pleased with herself), before making plates of their own.

Eponine ate with them, telling herself that she certainly _wasn't_ avoiding her own bedroom, and was just finishing up the dishes when the doorbell rang. Gavroche bounded out of the room, and moments later, Eponine heard the sound of numerous voices spilling into her apartment. Sighing, she got up to meet them, rolling her eyes as Azelma carefully fixed her breasts and straightened her clothes on their way out of the kitchen.

They were met by the sight of a _mess_ of people – what, had _all_ Les Amis popped in to visit? – all chattering excitedly. Combeferre and Joly each greeted her warmly on their way to her bedroom, knocking and then disappearing behind the door.

Musichetta suddenly appeared – her mocha skin offset by dangerous, dark red lipstick and her long, black hair in thick, neat braids – in front of Eponine, her eyes smoldering as she kissed each of her cheeks, winking almost seductively before moving on to introduce herself to Azelma. Eponine found herself distracted for a moment by their interaction, thinking that at lease Musichetta wasn't afraid of her sister; on the contrary, it seemed Azelma might have found someone with an even stronger sense of sexuality and even bigger propensity to voraciously flirt with anyone and everyone.

The rest of les Amis – at least, she _thought_ they were all there – introduced themselves to her, though Eponine was so overwhelmed she couldn't remember anyone's names.

So she returned to her bedroom, even though she didn't particularly want to be there _either_, shutting the door behind her and closing off the noise in the living room. She sighed in relief, but as soon as she looked up, at her bed, those blue eyes were locked on her face again, narrowed in concentration as Joly carefully inspected the wound.

She sat silently on her makeshift couch-bed as he gazed and Combeferre and Joly poked and prodded and Feuilly just observed.

Eventually, Eponine got up from the couch, busying herself with tidying her bedroom a bit, because she just couldn't stand sitting and being _stared_ at. Combeferre sat down on the couch then, as Joly finished dressing the wound, and removed his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Eponine was immediately under the impression that Combeferre was a very high-stress man. She wondered what his superpower was.

"How did this happen, Enjolras?" he asked his friend.

Enjolras tore his eyes from Eponine to regard Combeferre with a mild expression.

"I was in a fight, and more people showed up, and they got me. I'm not impervious, especially _alone_," he said, and his gaze flickered back to her for just a moment before settling back on his friend's concerned face. Eponine looked pointedly in the other direction. "Anyway, I fought off several of them, but they just kept coming, and someone big, someone with a mask and armor, came up while a few were beating me against a wall. I fought back, but he stuck me before I could get away."

"Enjolras, you'll need to stay put for a few days more. Sorry Eponine, I'm afraid he can't move the whole way to our headquarters until he's a little more healed. He was stabbed pretty deep; I don't know that he'll be able to walk much. Even going to the bathroom, he'll probably need help walking," Joly remarked absently, clearly oblivious to the conversation going on around him.

Eponine just sighed resignedly, picking up a thick book from her dresser.

"_That_ many people? Do you know who it was?" Combeferre asked, ignoring Joly.

Enjolras nodded. "It was the Patron-Minette."

Eponine felt her face blanche and the book tumble from her hands; it fell heavily, loudly to the floor, and everyone started and turned to look at her.

"S-sorry," she murmured, hurrying to pick it up and banish what she had heard from her ears, to sink back into the wall where she hadn't been noticed. Still, the words haunted her.

_The Patron-Minette_.

"Everything okay, Eponine?" Joly asked. She glanced at him, tossing a strained smile into the center of the room and trying to hide her expression and not, _not_ look at that face that was staring calculatingly at her own. So much for him being high on pain medicine.

"Yes, just clumsy, sorry."

Combeferre cleared his throat, turning back to his friends. "We can get into the specifics of _how_ you got yourself into a fight with an entire _gang_ when you're less drugged up. But the fact remains that the Patron-Minette is getting bigger and more powerful and they've a hand in with Louis-Philippe somewhere. Bringing the Patron-Minette down will be just another brick that we pull out from under Louis-Philippe before the election. Lose his major source of intimidation, and he'll lose to Lamarque."

Joly bobbed his head in agreement as Enjolras added, "Perhaps, then, we could put someone on the inside, to spy and to help bring them down from the inside."

"That's a great idea, but who can we find to infiltrate the top that _soon_? The election is only a few months away."

Enjolras smiled coolly, suddenly all the Revolutionary and none of the mild, injured boy that had revealed himself that morning. "Perhaps Eponine knows a way in," he suggested, his tone clipped and indicating he knew more than he was letting on.

Eponine turned to glare at him squarely, and this time when the book hit the floor, it was because she chucked it there.

* * *

_To be continued..._


End file.
